


Take Your Pick

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I just want to read my book Sherlock, I'd better stop or the tags will be longer than the story, M/M, and there's an entire sofa Sherlock, get out of my chair Sherlock, shift your bony arse Sherlock, that's my chair Sherlock, you have your own chair Sherlock, you'll regret this Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme prompt: <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=116569751#t116569751">John sitting in Sherlock's lap</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Your Pick

The living room of 221b Baker Street is furnished with five possible places for one to park their behind. Three people can comfortably fit themselves on the brown leather sofa; and the armchairs can seat one person each. The armchairs have a very specific arrangement in the living room (slightly turned towards each other; not the TV) and very specific occupants. 

They’ve never sat in each other’s chairs (well, not if you ignore the time Moriarty paid a visit... and I think we should).

So when John finally ambles downstairs after a fitful night’s sleep, he’s surprised to see Sherlock sitting in the red fabric armchair. The one that _very definitely_ doesn’t belong to him and the one that _very definitely_ belongs to John. Nothing appears to be wrong with the leather armchair, or the sofa.

“Sherlock, I mean it. Get up, let me sit down, or else.” John demands, one hand on his hip, the other combing through his hair. 

“Or else, what?” He’s answered with a smirk, and a raised eyebrow, and an air of defiance. He shouldn’t be surprised, and he isn’t, really.

“Or else I’ll just sit on your bloody knee, that’s what. Get out of my chair!”

Sherlock just laughs. “There are plenty of other places you can sit, John,” he drawls. “Take your pick.” 

“Exactly, so now move yourself into one of them. That’s my chair, you’ll get the cushion all weird and lumpy with your bony arse. You’ll ruin it.” John knows he’s whining now, but he doesn’t care. It’s the principle of the matter. He lets the mad bastard get away with just about everything. He just wants his chair back.

Sherlock picks up the newspaper (yesterday’s, but it’s for appearance and effect only, so he doesn’t care) and pointedly ignores John, who’s getting more annoyed by the second. He’s managed to count up to two hundred and six before the newspaper is unceremoniously ripped from his hands and thrown to the floor. 

“You asked for it,” muttered John, before sitting squarely in Sherlock’s lap, shifting about slightly to find a comfortable position atop the lean and bony thighs beneath him. He picks up the battered paperback novel from the side table and starts to read ( _Life of Pi_ , he’s tried reading it a few times, but has never managed to finish it). 

“Move or disturb me before the end of this chapter, and you’re dead, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
